A Poem Inspired by Matthew 9:32-34
In a town where dust clung soft to sandal tread,
And the morning sun laid gold on humble stone,
There walked a man whose lips had never said
A single word that could be called his own.
The market stirred with barter, laugh, and cry,
Yet through that noise he wandered all alone;
For though his ears received the world nearby,
His tongue was bound as though by chains of bone.
He knew the weight of silence like a cloak
That winter winds could never strip away.
Within his breast a thousand thoughts awoke,
Yet none could find the path of living clay.
The simplest joy—a greeting on the street,
A blessing shared when neighbors passed the door—
Were riches placed beyond his silent seat,
A language he could never reach nor store.
Some said the shadow in his chest was deep,
A darker hand that held his voice in night;
For sometimes sorrow makes the spirit weep
In ways unseen by ordinary sight.
And whispers passed like sparrows through the air:
A presence clung where living words should be,
A hidden tyrant lodged in secret lair,
A lord of chains no mortal eye could see.
One day, as sunlight leaned across the square,
A crowd approached that stirred the restless town.
They brought the silent man with tender care,
And set him where a traveling teacher’s gown
Brushed softly with the dust of many roads—
A man whose gaze held calm like evening seas,
Whose quiet voice unburdened heavy loads
And bent the stiffest hearts to gentle knees.
No thunder rolled. No blazing heavens split.
No iron sword was raised against the air.
He only stood where weary footsteps sit,
And looked upon the man with patient care.
The crowd drew close; the moment held its breath.
The hush of fields before the storm was there—
That fragile edge between the dark and death,
When hope itself seems scarcely worth a prayer.
Then suddenly—like dawn through mountain mist—
The unseen chain within the man was torn.
The tyrant fled, the shadow’s grip dismissed,
And silence died the instant speech was born.
A trembling sound escaped the opened gate—
A voice unused, yet bright with living flame;
The first small word that conquered years of weight
Rose fragile, like a bird that learned its name.
The people marveled, lifting startled cries:
“Such wonders none have seen in Israel’s land!”
A thousand questions flickered in their eyes
Like lanterns swinging in a traveler’s hand.
For who could loose what none had power to bind?
Who speaks and night must scatter from the sky?
What breath commands the prison of the mind
And bids the darkest captor flee and die?
Yet in the shadows stood another band,
Their robes severe, their hearts like guarded walls.
They watched the wonder wrought by unseen hand
And turned aside from mercy’s gentle calls.
“The prince of demons lends him borrowed might,”
They murmured low, with measured, bitter breath;
“For surely no pure lamp could blaze so bright
Without the aid of deeper fires beneath.”
So praise and scorn together filled the square,
Like wind that battles tide upon the shore;
For some beheld the healing mercy there,
And some refused the truth before their door.
The mute man spoke—his voice a rising stream—
Yet many hearts remained in stubborn night;
For even when the sun begins to gleam,
Not every eye consents to welcome light.
Still through the streets the healer passed along,
Where sorrow waited in a thousand forms;
And every broken life became a song
When grace walked quietly through human storms.
But always too the narrow path remained
Between the open heart and hardened clay:
One soul receives, its chains forever drained—
Another turns, and lets the light decay.
And so the tale drifts softly through the years,
A mirror set before the wandering mind:
That mercy speaks though drowned by doubt and fears,
And truth walks on though many stay behind.
For where the silent found his living voice,
A deeper silence stirred in those who scorned;
And every heart must answer and must choose
The dawn it greets—or darkness it has sworn.
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